


Health

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Ficlet, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sickfic, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 18:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: In which Watson grows concerned for Holmes's health.





	Health

If you, dear reader, have read my previous accounts of my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, you are probably familiar with the fact that his eating habits are somewhat irregular.   
I have mentioned before he often fasts during a case, and will refuse to eat until a conclusion is made.   
But I have perhaps not mentioned that there is a darker side even than this to his unfortunate habit.   
Holmes did not only starve himself during cases, but he also did so when he was in one of those deep states of depression I could not pull him out of; these were the times, as his doctor and friend, I most feared for his health, for he was even more combative than usual.   
“It would be a crying shame to spoil your brilliant mind by not also taking care of your body,” I scolded him when it had been two days. He did not even turn to look at me.   
“It hasn't been so long, Watson,” he drawled, his languid form draped across the settee. “Don't pester so. I will eat something this evening.”   
He did indeed, but it was nothing more than a biscuit and a bit of milk.

For the next week he was still eating dangerously scarcely. At my nagging, I could sometimes get him to eat part of a meal, but I wondered what bothered my friend so.   
“You really must eat, Holmes,” I told him, “You're getting thin again.”   
Too thin, for someone of his height and stature. He scowled at me.   
“I am in perfect shape, Watson. Don't let it bother you so.”   
But it would.

Even Mrs Hudson began to notice Holmes's decline in weight. “Dr Watson, is Mr Holmes all right?” she asked me one evening. “Man's terribly thin as of late.”   
“I'm sure he'll be fine, Mrs Hudson,” I said, trying to reassure her. “I'll keep an eye on him.”   
“That's good of you, Doctor. Supper will be up soon.”   
If she had any more concerns, she didn't voice them.

Holmes's clothing began to become too lax around his stomach and shoulders. “I must see my tailor,” he said irritably.   
“Or put more weight on,” I suggested, but he only ignored me.

The height, and my unfortunate understanding, of Holmes's state of depression came entirely by accident.   
I had just received a telegram from Billy addressed to him, and called for him. When he did not answer, I entered his room.   
Holmes was laying on his bed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearm littered with needle marks. And the vile thing itself was there, laying in it's velvet case beside him. I suddenly became infuriated as the pieces fit together  
“Is this what you have been doing?!” I barked, rushing to his side. “Poisoning yourself again! I thought you had stopped Holmes! Holmes!”   
He blinked at me as if it was a tremendous effort to do so, his eyes bloodshot, his pupils dilated.   
“John?” he said uncertainly, and suddenly all my anger drained, replaced with concern. I grabbed his wrist to check for his pulse, it was heightened but stable. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he seemed to have come down from his state of euphoria into a wave of pain.   
I left his room to fetch a cool cloth and a bit of brandy. I dabbed the sweat from his head and bid him drink a bit to alleviate the pain. He did, with some difficulty.   
“This explains your lack of appetite,” I said with some bitterness.   
“I apologize, Doctor, for not being honest with you,” he said shakily. “I know you disapprove of my habit, and I thought it best to keep you away from it.”   
“Of course I disapprove, look at what it does to you! Holmes, have you no regard for your own life?” There was the anger, renewed. How could he be so careless? How could he hide his own self-destructive behavior from me in some poor attempt to mask it?   
“I am sorry, Watson,” he said. “I didn't want to concern you, it is—it is. . .”   
There was something he could not bring himself to say.   
“Yes?” I said, more softly.   
“It is a difficult thing to stop.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I have always been a man in control of himself, Watson. But. . .I fear it is hard to control this. I itch for it, yearn for it all hours of the day. It muddles my brain until it is all I can think of.” He turned away from me, disgusted with himself. “It is a shameful,” he muttered. “I am no better than a man controlled by drink, or opium.”   
“Why didn't you say something, Holmes?” I asked him gently. “I am your friend, and your doctor. I could help you.”   
Holmes still did not meet my eyes.   
“Sometimes, you are so admiring of me, Watson,” he said quietly. “I want to be the man you write about in your stories, the man you see me as. But I am not. I suppose hiding that does not make it less of a fact.”  
I softened. Holmes had not talked of emotions so openly before. The gates around his heart opened for few, and rarely still.   
“It is my privilege to be your friend,” I said finally, “and it would be my privilege to help you, Holmes. I have told you before, I will never see you as less than extraordinary.”   
He looked away, and I thought perhaps there were tears in his voice when he croaked,   
“Thank you, Watson.”   
I put my hand on his shoulders. We had more stories to write yet.

 

 


End file.
